He Stayed
by TheMightyZan
Summary: He should leave, he knows he should, just like every other time he finds himself staying... Zevran reflects on his relationship with Lyna.


**A bit of fluffy, fluffy, fluff. I have had this swimming around in my head for awhile, and needed to get it out before the sweetness overwhelmed me.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

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He was going soft.

That's all there was to it.

What else would explain why he was laying here, warm under a pile of blankets, with his arm around a Grey Warden.

He should get up and leave. He should move to his own room, and remember how he should be acting. Instead, he buried his face into the fall of hair that covered her neck, and tightened his arm around her waist.

Letting his mind wander, he shifted as she turned to bury her face into his chest, arranging them both into a more comfortable position.

He had never met anyone like her before, a bright whirlwind that sucked everyone around her in.

He had wanted her from the beginning of course. If he was going to have to traipse around this wet, brown country he wanted to at least enjoy himself, and she was a challenge, a challenge like he had not had in ages, and Maker if that did not make him want her more.

It mattered little to him that she flung herself at the Warden Prince, and he would gladly admit that he used the continual rejection as a way to… ingratiate himself with her. A distracting voice, a willing ear, and he had nearly convinced himself that she wouldn't be a challenge at all, never mind her statements to the contrary.

But… something happened. She happened.

He could easily picture her face, eyes wide with interest as she asked him questions. He wasn't use to that. Wasn't use to someone being interested in him, in his ideas. He wasn't even use to people assuming that he had them. He was a tool, a weapon, finely honed to a deadly point. He didn't have opinions or goals, he had jokes, and stories, and all the training to bring pleasure right before ending everything.

No one had treated him like a person before, no one had wanted his thoughts, or told him he had a choice, and could do anything he wanted. Not even….

He stopped that train of thought and fitted his chin over the top of her head, careful to not wake her as she shifted and sighed into his neck.

She had told him, that first night he had joined their camp, that everyone deserved a second chance, even as her lips had quirked and continued on that he should get it over with if he planned on betraying her.

The thought didn't even enter his mind. He had already been picturing her naked, her only adornment the heavy black tattoos that made her eyes seem even more blue than they probably were.

He had wondered at first if it was an act, this… interest… in others. He was very sure that sometimes that was exactly what it was, a clever ploy to further her quest, or extract information, but other times… no. He could see the genuineness in her interactions with the others in their group, the emotion when she was talking to someone about something or someone lost. When it was directed at him, he was no better at fighting it than anyone else.

He fell under the spell of it, just like the others, just like everyone. When she asked him to tell her about himself, or his work, he found himself doing so, encouraged by a bright smile, a sudden laugh, or a sympathetic ear. He grew use to their conversations, comfortable in them in a way that he had never been before, easily accepting the touches that she was so free with, a hug, or a squeeze of her hand. Never anything sexual, just a way for her to connect with those she spoke to, a way to show her attention, and support, were with them.

He tried to shock her, and was the one to be surprised when she would merely tilt her head, expression curious, and ask why he thought such things would bother her. He tried to throw her off balance with risqué teasing, and found himself to be the one distracted when he managed to draw a pink tinge to her ears and cheeks.

When he had finally kissed her, after one of their sparring matches, he had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that maybe he was the one who was getting in over his head.

It was a cold splash of reality when she had turned from him, dropped his hand, and walked to another. That, if nothing else, had been what caused him to do something he never did, had never even thought to do.

He told her she had to choose, and when she had snuggled into him, lips pressing to his in an eager, if inexperienced kiss, he had felt warmth spread through his chest, and a breathe loose that he hadn't been realizing he was holding.

After that he had wanted her in earnest.

He smiled into her hair, that wasn't true, he had wanted her in earnest from nearly the moment he had opened his eyes and seen her standing over him, face carefully impassive as she questioned him about his murder attempt.

She had turned him down the first time he had tried to talk his way into her bed, her hands restless, and her eyes refusing to meet his own, the whole while flushing to the tips of her ears. It would have been amusing if he hadn't been so distracted by his wanting.

He didn't let it deter him; instead he had reveled in the fact that he had found a way to keep her off balance. He used the knowledge ruthlessly, employing touches and whispers, stares and kisses that kept her distracted, just enough. Just enough to keep him on her mind.

When she had invited him to her bed, it had been stilted and awkward, and he had wanted to laugh and kiss her right there when she had drawn herself up to her full, less than impressive, height, and ordered him to not ask questions.

That night… That night had been unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It wasn't that the sex was especially good, no, she had too little experience for it to be earth shattering, not that anyone's first time was amazing. No, it had been the fact that it had felt right. Like that was exactly where he was supposed to be, exactly who he was supposed to be with. The pleasure of simply knowing that it was her that he drew gasps and sighs from was more intoxicating than any other encounter he had ever had.

Afterwards she had asked him about love, and he had felt the fear rise in his stomach and through his chest, closing off his throat and drying his mouth. Fear, like he had never felt, like he had been trained not to feel, and he didn't know what to do with it, didn't know how to handle it.

He had been asked about love more times than he could count, by lovers, by marks, by whores he had taken a liking too, and he had always been able to smoothly lie even as he planned his next conquest.

He hadn't been able to do that with her.

He had reacted with sharp words, and angry looks, and she had simply reached out, understanding in her eyes, and pulled him back to the bed.

He had stayed there ever since.

It was never discussed, at least not between the two of them, and she never seemed to expect it, but every night he would follow her into her tent, and every morning he would wake up with her in his arms.

She didn't mention love again.

He had yet to figure out why that bothered him.

Though, if he was honest, he hadn't let himself think on it.

Just like he hadn't let himself think on his feelings when she and Alistair had been taken by Loghain's guards.

Looking down at her now he could remember the sickness he had felt as they were lead away, the helplessness because he knew he couldn't stop it, that she wouldn't want him to, not while Anora still needed to get to safety.

Fear.

Fear like he hadn't felt ever in his life, like he didn't even know was possible, an almost overwhelming amount, until he and Leliana had managed to fight their way into the Fort, and he had been able to touch her again, feel her skin, warm and alive under his hands, and see her smile, easy and soothing, as if it was she who had been worried about him.

Then Taliesen had shown up.

His grip on her waist tightened at the thought, causing her to make a small noise of discomfort in her sleep, forcing him to release her, to relax and pull back until her brows had smoothed and she had settled back against him.

Taliesen.

He hadn't been surprised to see a fellow Crow and had only wondered what had taken them so long to find him. It had surprised him to see Taliesen, though. Not that it should have. It was a clever plan, using a former friend, a former lover, to coax him into dropping his guard.

It might have worked if their last mission hadn't been between them.

Taliesen offered to take him back, help him come up with a story, he told him that he understood why he had left, and all Zevran could see was a pair of brown eyes, wide in pain, above a neck bright with blood, and all he could hear was a voice, terrified, pleading about love.

It was her voice that brought him back, steady and cold, stating she would need to be dead first. He looked back at the statement, and saw, despite her firm voice, that her mask of impassiveness had cracks.

He would have expected anger, or fear, or even dull acceptance, but instead she had looked sick. Sick and pale, and as if she wanted to be anywhere other than where she was at that moment, even as her hands stayed steady, and her arrow never left its target. He wanted to step to her, run his hands over cheeks that looked as if they might feel like ice, and tell her that he would protect her, would never turn on her, and would never let anyone else take her. Instead he had simply said that he wasn't going to let that happen. Not to her.

Not her.

The fight was inevitable, even after offering his onetime friend a way out. Afterwards, when he had stated he was free, she had turned to him and told him that he could do whatever he wanted to now, could go wherever he wanted to go, even as he wanted, desperately, for her to tell him she wanted him to stay.

When he said he wasn't going to leave the smile she sent him was brilliant, and he glowed at the thought that he might have pleased her.

That night he told her about Rinna. Spoke about the thing he swore never to mention all because she had wanted to apologize, had felt bad about forcing him to choose between her and Taliesen.

As if there had ever actually been a choice.

He told her about how he had felt like nothing afterwards, had wanted to cast his life at the Grey Wardens so he could finally be free of the guilt, and she had listened, as she always did.

He couldn't stand the compassion in her face, couldn't let himself be drawn in to the warmth and understanding he had seen there.

So he had left, and ever one to let him make his own choices, she had let him go.

He walked the streets of the sleeping city into the early hours of the morning, and in the end had gone back because all he really wanted was to lose himself in her, and pretend, just for a minute, that he was worthy of every look of trust and caring that she had ever given him.

He was an assassin. He knew better than to become attached to anyone, to let himself have a weakness. He knew how to take pleasure, to give it, and then walk away, or harden himself and finish a job, and he actively ignored the urge to explore what it was that was fighting those ingrained survival tactics.

Again he thought that he should leave, just like he should have left every single time he chose to stay with her instead, but, just like those times, he stayed.


End file.
